


you can set yourself on fire

by EtherDragons



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Experimental Prose, LSD Trip, Math analogies representing ego loss/death, Post-Undertale Soulless Pacifist Route, Read the PSA on the notes thanks, Recreational Drug Use, Sans Drops Some Acid and Has an Existencial Crisis: the fanfic, Touches on bad trips but don't really dwell on them too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtherDragons/pseuds/EtherDragons
Summary: she said "darlin' you knowhow the wine plays tricks on my tonguebut you don't seem to change at all when you stuff allof your feelings with drugs".An experiment with Sans, magic and drugs. If it reads like a fever dream, it's because it is one.





	you can set yourself on fire

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: I don't think recreational drug use is bad, **if** you are a willing and knowing participant in it. That includes knowing yourself and how to take care of your own reactions, keeping yourself safe and hydrated/well fed throughout, not overdoing it, and being aware that you could possibly suffer from bad reactions at any given point. 
> 
> LSD most of all, because it is a strong hallucinogenic drug that lasts for long periods of time (anywhere between 10 and 15 hours out of a single dosage), and can fuck you up real good. It's advisable to only take it if you are above 18, since before that there's parts of your brain that are still developing and it could do irreversible changes to the makeup of them (since LSD works directly with the sinapses of your brain cells). And even above 18, don't make it a habit because the brain still develops until 25-ish or so and you're more prone to becoming addicted.
> 
> That being said, let's get to the fun part.

Sans unlocks his phone, making a note of the time in his head, and slips the stamp-sized piece of paper inside his mouth, sticking it on the inner side of his jawbone before snapping it shut again, and focusing on breaking it down.

While summoning his tongue would be a waste of magic (and stars knows he's gonna need all his reserves, not to have a repeat of the first time where he passed out around the 6 hour mark), he also knows it's going to take about double the time for the bass (there's a pun here somewhere, but he's not in the mood to think too hard about it) to drop.

He reaches on hand over to his desk across the room, blue coalescing in his eye socket for the briefest of moments before he catches himself and, with a weary sigh, gets up to retrieve his supplies without magic (ain't his first rodeo, why does he insist on not getting all ready before he's sitting down?).

Sans will admit that he hates humans.

Loathes them, even. Every last one of them fleshy, cocky, violent motherfuckers (including, but not necessarily focused on anymore, Tori's kid. Can barely look them in the eye).

He will also begrudgingly admit that the bastards know how to make drugs.

As he picks what was supposed to be a supporting table for him to use his laptop in bed (a nice gift from Alphys years ago, cushioned and all, and he would wonder what the scientist thought of his unorthodox use of it if he didn't know for a fact she also partook on some of the same indulgences he does to take the edge off her anxious insomnia), but is now a sort of station where he keeps his drug supplies, which (as bad as "drug supplies" makes it sounds) amounts mostly to a couple packs of rolling paper, three bags of weed, another bag of LSD stamps, one lighter almost running out of juice, and a grinder, he mulls over what exactly he wants for tonight.

It's a short lived line of thought, dead by the time Sans drops himself heavily back on his dilapidated mattress. To say simply, he wants to not think too hard. Admittedly, there's better ways to do that, he's just not found them yet.

He grabs the 8-ball grinder, popping the top to find there's still some left from earlier (thank you, Past Sans), and with practiced movements he has the green buds ground down to one step before powder onto a piece of rolling paper, rolled up and, after deciding to just dip one phalange on the cup of water on his bedside table to activate the glue, it's all done.

It's a matter of minutes now, that Sans feels his entire body relax, smoke escaping lazily from between his teeth, from deep within his exposed ribcage (shirts felt too constricting when he dropped acid, so why not just forgo it from the beginning?), swirling on the stale air of the room. Maybe he should crack open a window (ain't the best time to hotbox it), but he decides against moving, instead taking another long drag, letting his body sag further against the wall behind him as he exhales.

It's like the tension from his joins unwinds, fleeing this mortal coil to ascend somewhere they can't touch him. His bones feel feather light (but not yet his head), and very much heavy at the same time. He could almost sleep like this (almost, almost! Deep, dreamless slumber is so close he can almost taste it on the back of his not-even-there tongue, but he knows, knows it won't come), so he puts it out by dipping his phalanges on water again, and carefully pressing them on the lit tip.

The sound it makes going out is a nice fizzle. Too nice, in fact, and it makes him pull up his phone again to see the time.

Turns out it's been longer than he thought. Almost an hour now, should come anytime soon.

Sans flips the phone over, considering if he should turn it off and put it away altogether, but flips it right side up, and unlocks it. He's already worked out how to block it for calls (without going through the hassle of just opening it up and pulling the SD card off, that didn't exactly help when one of his friends was, among other things, a glorified hacker), so that isn't an issue anymore. And he can put some music in the background, Sans muses, pulling up a music app and a random playlist within.

With the low rumble of a nice bass line on the background now, Sans allows himself to close his eyes and enjoy the deep buzz thrumming down his bones, the way his magic crackles softly from the places where it hides.

It's nice, he'll admit.

From all the things he's tried (and stars knows he's tried most of everything [except cocaine; he has standards against snorting what looks exactly like a corpse, he doesn't have to remember—] on his first year on the surface), those two hit the best.

Weed he deals in (heh, maybe he should) more often (a nicer way to say every day), to take the sharpness off the mess that pretends to be his head, dull the anxiety and the fear and the (whiplash of moving forward after eternity stuck in place like he's hit the front window of a bus where the driver suddenly hit the gas like he was going to die) helplessness.

It's nicer, easier to function like (he isn't a depressed waste of magic) a normal living thing that is not high off his non-existent arse after smoking half a joint, while acid...

Well.

It renders him absolutely unable to comprehend time and (not like he usually can) any social interaction that goes beyond the one time he ordered a pizza and forgot he can't eat human food, and doesn't exactly carry human money—

—man, that delivery guy's face. He knew Sans was tripping every single ball in existence and in a state of nonexistence, but what could he even say?

What does anyone even say to a half naked skeleton trying to dig a wallet that isn't there from his pelvis like it's no big deal?

Sans snorts out a laugh, relishing in self-deprecation for a second, before he is startled by his own voice and his eye sockets snap open to the soft glow of his phone, still playing music.

He stops.

Looks at the time.

His smile hurts at the edges.

There's magic in the air (literally), soft navy blue wisps licking between his ribs like smoke (like fire, like h—no, no. not that, don't even go there), floating disembodied on the stale air above Sans.

It hit.

Finally.

The wisps grow sharper, brighter now that he's noticed them (or it could [probably is] just his own perception of them that changed), swirling and coalescing in shapes and amorphous forms.

Sans finds himself laying down, somehow, sometime after (who knows how long, time is meaningless), watching the wisps move, enraptured by his own display of magic.

He feels so stretched thin most of the (that word again, he can't stand it) time, like a rubber band spread over (countless countless infinite) several places at once, like too little butter on a too big loaf of bread, like his magic can't even focus enough—

Fuck, he's hungry now.

Magic gathers before he thinks (when he's ever thinking?), crackling in the space between and he's halfway through short-cutting himself (and probably the bed and everything on and around it with the way blue envelops everything) to somewhere before he can snap back.

Terrified.

Air wheezes past his teeth (iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin), digging his hands into the mattress (out). Stabilizing, grounding, keeping himself here.

(why bother? he'd probably do better in whatever lies sandwiched beneath his steps sideways into nothing)

No.

(breathe in)

Not that.

(breathe out)

Not so soon.

(he doesn't even have lungs, talk about—)

It hasn't even been...

(—an exercise in futility)

... Forty-five minutes?

(time _is_ meaningless)

(just the way he likes it)

That snaps him right out of the funk.

His joints make a sickening cracking noise when he relaxes back into the bed, releasing the tension. Blue magic snaps back into place (back in where it belongs), and something breaks by his side.

(he floated the glass of water. imbecile.)

Sans runs one hand over his skull, groaning.

It ought to be better for humans, he assumes. No magic to accidentally lose control of, no (real actual danger of killing themselves via fucking off to whatever nothing is) no real worries.

Body crackling (blue mist clings to his bones like however it keeps him together it has to work double time when all he wants is to feel like falling apart) he sits up, reaches for the joint abandoned on the ashtray, lights it again.

He's still hungry.

This ain't going to make that need any better.

He should maybe allow himself to shortcut to Grillbz or something (no, you fucking idiot), or at least down to the kitchen (you aren't a piece of fruit you can walk with your own two goddamned legs), but he rejects both options in favour of smoking more.

The smoke mingles with the magic currently leaving his ribcage, midnight blue and grey curling around in the spaces in between, spreading everywhere else in some shifting pattern he can't quite follow.

He's still hungry.

Hindsight is 20/20, and Sans should have known better and kept food in his bedroom (moron), but he hasn't and there's nothing he can do now.

(aside from stopping his own slow descent into a vegetative state [that one could argue was achieved successfully several timelines ago] and using his own two feet to walk down a single set of stairs into the kitchen pap keeps well stocked)

Shut up.

He's not even fully sure his legs still work (they do), and he isn't about to make a fool of himself (more than usual)—

Shut up, _shut up_. Smoke.

The joint has gone out during the time Sans was yelling at himself (let's hope not literally), so he reaches for the lighter again. His hand barely moves before his magic does, blue enveloping the lighter and shaking it slightly while bringing it up to his face. Welp. If it wants to do that by itself, he lets his own magic work itself into fine work to produce a flame, puffing at it until the joint is lit again.

(the room must be reeking now, good job [when it isn't?])

Fair enough. No reason to open a window now.

Sans sits up slowly, getting distracted halfway through by the way his arm seems to catch for a moment, the movement slow like badly timed animation, dragging white and glowing blue in slow motion (stuck in timing). It's (rid—[inter—{beautiful}—esting]—iculous).

As soon as it starts it's gone, and Sans doesn't want to dwell on any of that.

The only other thing in his mind is that he's still fucking hungry.

There should be a bottle of ketchup (hopefully not drained already) somewhere, but he doesn't remember where in his (pigsty excuse of a) room it is. Not even magic can help now—

—not that it would, now, with the way it's leaking and clinging like blue mist to all available surfaces, the clean smell of ozone heightened to a thousand, heady and full.

([{you smell good}])

What the fuck.

(why the fuck are you surprised)

The kind of thought that always came unbidden shouldn't be surprising, if it—

([you smell nice, she said, red-faced a split second afterwards] embarrassed for voicing such a bold faded lie)

—if it didn't come laced with someone else's voice.

He paid it no mind at the time— ([{don't lie, you're alone now}]) —to the human girl at the cashier line, to her shy (fearful) reply when he asked if she'd lost something his way, with the way she was staring.

(he's disgusting; she was a filthy specist and also afraid [why the fuck else would anyone— {you can accept a compliment in the dark, no one is seeing you here except yourself}])

Sans groans, joint long forgotten again, clutched between his teeth.

([{you were staring too}])

 _No_.

(you were)

Shut _up_.

(you wanted to [you wouldn't {not to really hurt, was it}] wring her neck in your hands)

... No?

(yes)

(the destruction you turn inwards, but outwards, to the fuckers who bred kids who thought they could make you and everyone you know go through endless torture [{misguided anger}], if only you could)

(but you can't exact revenge for something that didn't happen)

No.

He can't.

(you [yes you {don't} want it] want it so much)

Sans groans, clutching his skull.

([{stop lying}])

He is  _not_ lying.

([{you're alone, you can—} that's ridiculous] even for you)

Magic flares, the steady rhythm turning into a pounding mess beneath his temples. It flares outwards, though it's hard for him now to grasp at the moving concept of what's  _him_ and what's just excess magic , constructed. Outwards, inwards, it flares somewhere and something gets knocked down again, it melds and swirls somewhere (inside what's physical, the little of him that is matter), stops.

(time is  _meaningless_ )

(space is even more so)

([{are you ready to stop lying}])

Another groan is ripped right from his chest cavity, the sound so loud it rumbles.

Sans' eyes are closed. When did he do that?

He cracks them open a fraction.

His shorts are glowing.

When did he do  _that_?

His mind—

(overflowing)

(it's too much sound [too much light {not enough}])

He's  _not_ lying.

([{you looked too much at her— eye lights trained on her face, soft and plump. thin lips, thin eyes, you'd wondered how her hair would feel. you know you did, you know. you were still thinking that, angry at yourself but you can't understand being angry at yourself and at people who by all means  _don't exist_ so you get angry at people who have done none of the crimes you blame them for}])

No.

(you know you're a piece of shit)

Yes.

([you know you deserve your own anger])

Yes.

([{and you know it's been enough and you should let it go}])

No.

([{you can deny all you want. you  _know_.}])

(you don't know shit about what i know)

He does.

At least, some part of him does. Is painfully aware of the fact.

On a subconscious level, at least, and on an agonizingly physical one.

Sans' shorts are still glowing.

He's horny  _and_ hungry now. Amazing.

And he's pretty sure he's not going to do anything about either of those things, even though his mind (yourself) keeps bombarding him with thoughts of what he should do for both.

With shaky hands, he reaches again for his supplies. The grinder is empty now, so he has to carefully pick open one of the zip lock bags, pull what should be a generous amount of weed from within, and grind it down. The process feels like it takes forever to be complete (meaningless), and he can't seem to focus his eyelights on any of it too long. Why?

([you're crying])

Sans' hand goes up to his eye socket and, well, he is leaking (not crying). Magic fills the empty space of his eye, coalescing into big fat drippy things, running down the side of his cheekbone to meet with more of it, leaking from the corner of his smile. He frowns, tries to blink the magic away.

(it's useless)

When that doesn't do anything (useless) he just puts himself more into the task at hand.

([{you're still thinking about her}])

He isn't.

([{yes you are}])

He's rolling a joint. Thinking about how good it'll be to sleep after this has passed; he's going to sleep for an entire day, absolutely exhausted, with no nightmares to wake him up. Too tired to think.

([{that too— but you're thinking about skin. soft and supple, you imagine, like silk, like the nice fabric of tori's sheets, like nothing you've ever felt before. you're curious, too curious for your own good. a good scientist. you want to know.}])

He doesn't.

He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to  _touch_ that memory of impossibly nice sheets with a much less nice final outcome.

(you just want to be angry)

No...

([you want to be nothing])

Yes.

That feeling, that thought he allows further examination.

It washes over him like an epiphany (as if it hadn't been your goal from the moment you woke up), and through the slits of his eye sockets (when did you close them again) he sees his magic retreat, like smoke in a vacuum cleaner, moving his body backwards into the wall again, blanketing his bones in its cool warmth, subsiding from their exploration.

It's not until this moment that he fully realizes what a fucking sensory overload it was, to have himself everywhere at once (rubber band stretched to the point of almost snapping [and snap you almost did]), arms falling limp by his sides and everything else forgotten.

The feeling of blissful nothingness washes over like waves, in the bare darkness of his room. There's still music playing by his side, on his forgotten phone, instrumental and nice (it's slower than it should be, because the song is familiar but not its rhythm [but it's okay, everything feels slower] and time is meaningless anyway).

Sans blinks once, twice.

When he blinks again there's light filtering in through the window.

Automatically, with limbs feeling like they weight ten times their actual weight, he grabs his phone and looks at the time. It doesn't turn on.

Dimly aware of his surroundings, Sans groans and tries to move from his position on the bed, his spine making a cracking noise when it moves, stretching his arms above his head very slowly. His joints pop, all of them all at once, and he grunts again. There's a fine line between that feeling nice and like absolute hell, and he seems to be treading it very lightly today.

He looks down at himself, to his exposed ribs and then down to his shorts, peppered with weed, the grinder open and forgotten, one half must've rolled off his lap and it's now lodged somewhere in his shorts.

Fuck. That's a waste.

He'll let Future Sans deal with it, though, allowing the exhaustion from what he imagined were at least 10 hours of screaming at himself in the darkness of his bedroom wash over, along with the remnants of the feelings he's gone over this time. The nice buzz of nothingness still lingers, the confusion does too.

That's Future Sans  _and_ Sober Sans' problem. Present Sans just wants to sleep more now.


End file.
